A Dark Night
by Ravenclaw563
Summary: "Cold. A slight yet muscular figure sat hunched on an unforgiving metal chair. His raven-black hair, bloodied strands sticking together in places, was just long enough to hide the black domino mask..." Nightwing story. No slash. Infrequent updates imminent - sorry! [Awesome image from Nightwing: The Series on Youtube. Go watch it.]
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I've had this whirling around in my head for awhile and just wanted to write it down, but as I already said in the summary, I have no idea where it's going. I've decided to start in the middle of the (currently nonexistent) story, which is something I've been wanting to explore a bit but never had the chance. Thoughts? Like it, hate it... Yeah I should just write the rest of the story instead of babbling...

No guarantees on constant and/or regular updates, and I'm so sorry if you hate cliffhangers. I hate them too and I'm the author! If you have any inspirational ideas, _please_ PM me or leave a comment.

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**Chapter 1**

Cold. A slight yet muscular figure sat hunched on an unforgiving metal chair. His raven-black hair, bloodied strands sticking together in places, was just long enough to hide the black domino mask conformed to handsome cheekbones and an angular nose. Blood seemed frozen on the way down from his pale lips, unable to continue its destination towards the rest staining the dark blue, raven insignia on the black armored chest piece. The man's wrists had been handcuffed and forced around the back of the chair while his ankles were tightly chained to the chair legs. One could only tell whether the figure in the chair was alive by the small puffs of breath coming out of his mouth. His chest rose and fell imperceptibly.

It was silent save for the hum of a large generator hidden somewhere beyond the uniform, steel grey walls. There was nothing else in the room besides the bare lightbulb in the center casting ominous shadows far into the corners.

After some time, the figure stirred. He tasted the bitter tang of dried blood in his mouth as he painfully gasped for breath in the frosty air.

_Good likelihood of a punctured lung. Maybe some broken ribs. Breathing definitely hurts enough. _

He was grateful for the cold, for it numbed the many injuries he knew he had sustained. He berated himself again for not sensing the danger before he'd been ambushed and injected with a nerve-immobilizing drug. Despite the freezing conditions in the room, he could feel a weak throbbing in his right knee - it had snapped under the swing of his attacker's heavy boot after the drug had paralyzed him. He remembered the fierce, sadistic kicks and punches to nearly every part of his body afterwards while he lay like a ragdoll on the ground, unable to defend himself. He did not know how long it'd been since he'd mercifully blacked out. The last fuzzy memory he had was of the hulking, black and orange masked man leaning down to whisper into his ear. He shivered.

His sluggish train of thought was cut off as the clicks and groans of numerous gears and bolts grating open a heavy door rebounded from behind him, assaulting his ears. He knew that his delayed, flinching reaction was a sure sign he had been in this freezer for some time. Echoing footfalls grew louder as his captor approached at a heavy, deliberate pace, as if he had all the time in the world. The prisoner felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The man stopped directly behind the chair. Pausing. Contemplating. Relishing the moment. The jagged breathing of the captured contrasted with the beast-like breaths of the captor. A full minute passed. Finally, an icy voice whispered in the prisoner's ear, "welcome back, Nightwing."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Hey Wally, did you see Dick this morning?" Barbara asked after passing the TV room and seeing the speedster taking up the length of the couch.

"Huh, what?" Wally replied, eyes glued to the TV while taking handfuls from a giant bowl of popcorn.

Barbara snatched the remote, turned the TV off, and repeated her question.

"Ohh, you're worried he's gone off the radar without telling you," Wally teased.

She crossed her arms, giving him the famous Batglare.

"Okay, okay!" he exclaimed, hands raised in surrender. "I honestly don't know. He never said where he was going. Probably just went out for a patrol in Bludhaven or—"

"His comm has been offline since we got back. He doesn't do that."

"Look, he probably just wants some alone time. Guy has to get a break once in a while. Honestly, I still don't understand how he's even walking after four consecutive missions without any sleep."

Barbara sighed. She knew that nagging feeling wouldn't go away until she got to the bottom of this. Even if Nightwing was sleep deprived, his comm signal was the one thing he'd be sure to keep track of. It was habit. Batman had emphasized from the beginning that keeping the communication system open was absolutely essential. And Nightwing, who now had plenty of experience of his own to make decisions about mission safety, still enforced that as a rule for himself and especially the team.

"What about M'gann, have you asked her?" Wally said after the brief silence.

"Yeah, but she said she couldn't even detect his mind from here. So he's definitely not in Bludhaven."

"Well... like I said, maybe he just wants time off. Give it a day or so and he'll be back in no time. I'm sure he's fine, Babs."

Her brows creased, and after a moment she walked off, wholly unconvinced that Dick would just leave without telling anyone - especially her - that he wanted time alone. If Wally was right, she felt slightly betrayed that Dick didn't tell her he needed a break. Did he still have trust issues? Did she just have to accept that it's an inevitable trait Batman had passed down to him?

Wally was, for one thing, correct to think Nightwing was insane for going out after barely snatching two hours of sleep in the span of three days. Then again, it was no mystery as to why Nightwing didn't try to sleep more. Many superheroes, having had their share of disturbing experiences and missions, all had insomnia to a certain degree, but when asked to talk about it, Dick was particularly good at hiding his problems and evading the question.

Just this once, though, staying awake by patrolling and fighting crime in the dark, frosty streets of some filthily corrupt city wasn't enough. The cumulative years of restless sleep had caught up to him at last in the worst possible way.

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_**A/N:**__ By the way, this is probably written out of character, mostly because I don't exactly know enough about the characters to get their diction right. And yes, I know these are brutally short chapters. Nothing's really happening in this one and it's definitely not as exciting as the first... Just setting up plot for now. Thanks for taking the time to read, and if you feel like it, please review!  
-Raven_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It's been so many _years _since I last saw you," the captor hissed in a deep voice. "What happened to the cheery red and yellow cloaked boy? Sick of following your mentor's orders? Or did the Joker tear apart your pathetic superhero crusade?"

Nightwing gritted his teeth and stayed silent, trying not to notice how his body betrayed him, hitched breaths showing in white puffs of smoke. He could taste the dried blood in his mouth.

"All right, if that's how you want it to be."

Deliberately, Slade bent down and deliberately placed his hand on Nightwing's already broken ribs. Nightwing gasped and hunched forward further in the chair as far as his chains would allow in a vain attempt to protect his ribcage. Seconds passed, the hand increasing pressure incrementally.

Finally, the pressure disappeared. The prisoner nearly blacked out, either from lack of oxygen or from the pain.

"Let us try again, shall we? I only want to know how you've been doing."

This time the wheezing was audible, no matter how much Nightwing wanted to hide it.

"Good. Now, talk."

Reluctantly, Nightwing obliged.

"Still - kidnapping apprentices - for your dirty work… aren't you," he managed.

Slade suddenly grabbed Nightwing's chin with his right hand, examining the slightly bloodied but mostly unharmed, handsome face and turning it side to side as if examining meat. There was an maniacal glint in the one eye that could be seen on the orange side of the angular face mask.

"As a matter of fact, no. I've only ever had eyes for you as my apprentice. You were the only one who understood exactly how I needed things done," Slade said as he roughly pulled his hand away. "I hate to say this, but your old man taught you well. We have much more in common than you'd like to admit."

"We have nothing in common," Nightwing spat.

"On the contrary," Slade countered, now circling behind the chair. "You and I both share the same wit and determination. We don't just finish the job with 100 percent accuracy, no, we strive for 110 percent. It's not just done, but done precisely according to our orders. You remember what a team we were? You absorbed and adapted to my fighting style in a matter of a few sessions, and you, willingly or not, began to parallel my movements and every slight command."

"Shut up!" Nightwing hissed. As much as he tried to deny it, Slade was right. He was tearing open memories and emotions Nightwing had locked long ago into the darkest, most secure recesses of his mind.

"And yet," Deathstroke said slyly behind his full face mask, "you loved that feeling of power rushing through your veins, of not having to obey your old man's Code of Honor. I can give you that freedom to do what your anger tells you to do, as long as you follow my orders."

"Go to hell."

Deathstroke paused. "I will give you time to think about my offer. Just remember," he said as he made his way to the far door behind Nightwing, "your targets can't crawl back to haunt you if they're dead."

In the sudden silence that followed, the echoes of the bolts in the door sliding closed rang in Nightwing's ears. He was trapped with his own thoughts to keep him company.

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_Reviews welcome, as always. Thanks for reading!_

_-Raven_


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